


What'cha Gonna Do?

by maurascalla



Category: Cops - Fandom, Shameless (US)
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Future Fic, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 17:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1718072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maurascalla/pseuds/maurascalla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Markovich is being filmed by the people from Cops when he gets a call from dispatch about the Gallagher house. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>“No one’s going to press any charges, Tony, okay?” Fiona says, and she looks at the camera man warily. “No one’s signin’ shit either.” </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	What'cha Gonna Do?

**Author's Note:**

> I know Cops isn't even on the air anymore, and that this isn't really the format they use for interviews, but I couldn't help myself. So yeah, Tony's kind of a stalker and everyone is mildly embarrassed for him. 
> 
> This ended up being way more dramatic than I intended.

_My name is Tony Markovich. I’ve been on the force for ah, three or four years now._

_What? Oh, yeah. No, I love this job. I get to work in the neighborhood I grew up in, keeping it safe and protecting people I’ve known my whole life. It’s the dream._

_Do I- do I think that’s conflict of interest? Well, I’d be lying if I said “No” outright, but I- I like to think I keep it professional._

**

“This is dispatch. We have a 415, disturbance of the peace, at 2119 South Homan Avenue, anyone copy?” Tony glances at the men in the back seat of his cruiser, one holding a camera, the other holding a boom stick, before grabbing his radio. He takes a deep breath and presses down on the button. 

“This is officer Markovich. I’ve got this one, Judy,” he says. He lets go of the button and there’s a pause that stretches out longer than Tony expects. His eyes are on the road, but he can still feel the guys from Cops staring at him.There’s a flush crawling up the back of his neck, and the harder he wills it away, the redder he gets. 

“Copy that, Tony,” Judy finally responds with a sigh. 

“What was that about?” asks the guy with the boom stick. His name is Axel, Tony remembers, and he’s pretty sure he’s mocking him, somehow. 

“Nothing!” Tony exclaims, flipping on his lights and turning on the sirens. 

**

_You want the hot gossip? Why would I tell you anything about any of my officers? I would never violate their trust like that, gentlemen._

_Oh, Markovich? Yeah, he’s been in love with Fiona Gallagher for ages._

**

Tony pulls up in front of his own house and cuts the noise and the lights before getting out of his patrol car. His stomach is in knots. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He lets out the camera guy, whose name he’s forgotten, and Axel, smiling at them tightly when they thank him. 

There’s a car that’s been following them around all night, driven by someone else from Cops, and they pull up behind Tony’s vehicle. They stay where they are, engine running. They’re only there incase Tony has to arrest someone and the other guys need a ride out. 

Ignoring the driver, Axel, and the camera guy, Tony straightens his uniform and starts up the sidewalk. He’s surprised when, before he can even get up to the front gate, Fiona comes running out the front door, followed by her younger sister, Debbie. 

“Tony!” She stops dead when she sees the camera, her eyes wide and surprised. “What the fuck?”

“Cops is filming in Chicago,” Tony says with a shrug. 

Fiona blinks, shakes her head, then stands behind her gate with her hands on her hips. “I’m not signin’ anything,” she warns him sternly. Tony nods, because it doesn’t really matter to him. He’s about to bring up the reason for his visit, but Debbie beats him to it. 

“Fiona, come on-” She looks scared, with her arms wrapped around herself and her eyes red rimmed from crying. She’s standing closer to Fiona than Tony’s used to seeing these days. In the throes of her teenage angst, Debbie usually wouldn’t be caught dead leaning on Fiona for support. This must be dire, Tony thinks. 

“What happened, Fiona?” Tony asks. 

Fiona runs a hand through her bushy hair, loose and chaotic, and sighs. “Look, it was nothing, okay? I know those assholes across the street called you guys but we’re good,” she says and flashes him that smile he’s seen more often than not. It’s the one she gives people when she’s lying to their faces, but doesn’t think she’ll get away with it. Tony deflates. This is going to suck. 

“Was it Frank?” he asks, keeping his voice low. 

“No! It was Ter-” Debbie starts, her voice thick, but Fiona quiets her with a pointed look. 

Tony’s about to try again when he hears someone shout, “Fuck!” from the inside of the Gallagher house. It’s a loud, piercing noise that cuts through the sounds of the street. His eyes cut to the house, and he can hear Axel suck in a sympathetic breath from behind him. 

“Whatever that was, sounded like it hurt,” he says nonchalantly, hands already on the front gate, ready to push it open. 

“Look, Terry Milkovich showed up here about an hour ago.” Fiona tucks her hands into her jean shorts and hunches her shoulders. “He’s gone now. Don’t worry about it.”

“I have probable cause, Fiona,” Tony says apologetically, opening the gate. 

**

_It’s not always easy to keep things professional, you know? But I do my best. When you work in a neighborhood like this one, there are shades of gray they don’t prepare you for in the academy._

**

Honestly, Tony doesn’t expect to see Mickey Milkovich and his now not-so-new wife sitting in Fiona’s front room. There’s another woman he recognizes as one of Milkovich’s prostitutes, and he’s surprised to see her too. They’re all bleeding, and Milkovich is hugging his arm to his chest in a way that suggests that it’s either broken or been recently dislocated. The way Ian Gallagher’s pressing a bag of frozen peas to his shoulder though, tells Tony it was probably dislocated. 

Milkovich glares at him, and Tony doesn’t take it personally. He’s arrested the kid’s brothers enough times, and Tony’d be pissed too. “The fuck, Fiona! I said get rid of him!”

“Maybe if you not scream like bitch,” his wife says with a shrug. There’s blood in her hair, on her clothes, and cuts on her arms. She’s holding their baby- a kid with a name Tony has no hope of ever pronouncing- on her knees, keeping him in place with one hand. She’s got a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, and her other arm is wrapped around her co-worker’s shoulders. The other woman, a blonde girl with a lazy eye, is shaking like a leaf, reminding Tony of Debbie. 

“My fuckin’ arm was out of its fuckin’ socket, bitch! Shut the fuck up!” Milkovich shouts, lunging forward. He hisses in pain, abandons any planned actions he had against his wife, and falls back into his seat. 

“Mickey, cut the shit,” Ian says, tossing the peas into Milkovich’s lap. The kid shoots Ian a dirty look, holding the bag up to his injured shoulder on his own. Ian moves to sit next him on the floor in front of the television. He’s covered in fresh bruises too, Tony notes, and when he really looks around the room he notices that he, Milkovich, and the prostitutes are the only ones who look worse for the wear. He sighs. 

“What happened, guys?” he asks. 

After a long, uncomfortable silence, broken only by the shuddering breaths of the blonde woman, Carl Gallagher says, “Mickey’s dad came home.”

“What?” Tony furrows his brows. “Does that mean?”

**

_Hahaha, yeah. We don’t tell Markovich shit about his beat. We kind of figure he already knows? I mean, he lives right in the middle of it! He should know already, right? It’s like a fish bowl in there. the world’s so small when you only live three blocks from everything you know._

_What? Do we think that’s dangerous? Nah! If Tony doesn’t know he’ll figure it out. He’s not the brightest kid, but he’s a good cop, you know?_

**

“Rat,” Mickey mumbles, and Ian shoots him a dirty look.

“Mick, seriously, shut up.” His hand is on the other boy’s neck, fingers caught in his hair, and something clicks in Tony’s mind. He blinks three times in rapid succession. He remembers seeing Ian in over in Boystown once, a few months ago, when he’d covered a shift for Hernandez. There was an old man in a nice coat and a younger boy in an unseasonably light shirt walking down the street together, hanging off of each other and at first, Tony thought maybe he should pull over and check them for drugs and probably prostitution, since the boy’s shirt was more sequin than fabric, but when he noticed the kid’s red hair, he paused. He knew Fiona’s siblings almost as well as he knew her. Or rather, knew of them, could pick them out of a line up without any trouble. He doesn’t really know any of them, apparently, since he had no idea Ian was fucking Mickey Milkovich of all people. 

Idly, Tony wonders if all of Mickey’s prostitutes are women, or if he sells the services of men too. Deciding that thought is too uncharitable, even for his own internal monologue, he buries it down and clears his throat. 

“Hate crimes are illegal,” he says tentatively, eyes on Ian. 

“My dad didn’t do this, okay? We tripped down the fuckin’ stairs.” Milkovich says, sneering. His wife snorts, and Tony looks at her instead, expecting her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, he sighs again. This is a nightmare. 

“No one’s going to press any charges, Tony, okay?” Fiona says, and she looks at the camera man warily. “No one’s signin’ shit either.” 

“Well, call in if you have any more problems,” Tony says. “With the stairs.” Milkovich has the balls to actually laugh at him outright, and it makes Tony’s skin crawl. “I’m serious. As it is, there are four children in this house, and if they _fall down the stairs,_ you don’t call us and something happens to them, you guys could get in trouble for reckless endangerment,” Tony says even though he doesn’t think that’s true. He’s glad Lip isn’t around, because he’d call him on it and he feels the need to put the fear of God into these people. 

**

_The worst part though, are the people who won’t let you help, for whatever reason. It’s like you’re the enemy. And yeah, I work with guys now who my friends and neighbors taught me to be afraid of when I was a kid, and I get it. I do. Or I did._

**

Back in his cruiser, Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. He can see, out of the corner of his eye, Kevin and Veronica slipping out of their house. They march past his house and over to Fiona’s. He wonders why they didn’t just use the back doors, when he catches a glimpse of Kevin’s shirt. It’s a picture of that girl they fostered and lost track of. He’s got his body angled toward the police car, and thus, the camera. Tony pinches harder. 

“So what the Hell was that?” asks Axel. The other guy nods, camera secure on his shoulder. They stare at him, waiting for answers. Tony just smiles brightly and starts the car. 

“My shift ends in an hour, guys! Let me take you back to the precinct,” he says. 

Axel rolls his eyes and dramatically flings himself backwards into his seat. “Whatever, hombre.” 

Tony whistles, taking the long way back to work. He thinks about Fiona, which isn’t unusual for him, but this time, he thinks about her in jail and how she’ll end up back there if shit doesn’t change soon. He thinks about how Mickey Milkovich is fucking her little brother and how his wife is a hooker and their marriage is about as real as a three dollar bill. He thinks about how there’s paperwork he’s supposed to file if he thinks children might be in danger, or if he’s discovered a green card marriage. He should look into Kev’s bar, the upstairs being rented out to Mickey fucking Milkovich who thinks he’s being sneaky, but the meth head he arrested yesterday had ten of his flyers in the lining of his coat to keep warm at night. He thinks about all of that and when he gets the the station, he doesn’t do shit about it. 

**

_It’s hard to patrol where you live, but Markovich does it every day. I think he’s a glutton for punishment. Personally, I don’t shit where I eat. If your neighbors are afraid of you, you can’t go get a drink at the bar down the road, you know? He’s a friggin’ masochist or some freak thing. He’s not going to see this, right? Oh, he is? Well shit._


End file.
